you’ll do false corroborating stories.”
“What a bloody business,” Ernest said bitterly.
“Yes,” Tensing said. “I’ll need captions and news stories to go with the photographs, and anything else you can come up with—eyewitness accounts, personal ads, letters to the editor—the same sort of thing you were doing before. No direct mention of location, of course. We want the Germans to work that out on their own, and our double agents will be confirming it.”
“When do we begin?” Cess asked.
“Now,” Tensing said, pulling a sheaf of black-and-white photographs from his briefcase and handing them to Cess. “These need to be checked for identifying landmarks or signboards which may need to be cropped out.”
He handed a second sheaf to Ernest. Each one had a memo paper-clipped to it with the actual time and location and the falsified one. “A basic news story for the London dailies,” Tensing said, “and a local connection for the village papers—local resident visiting someone in the town when it hit. You know the sort of thing, Worthing.”
He knew exactly, and he couldn’t have asked for a better job. Not only did he not have to worry about being sent to Burma, but he’d be able to imbed his own coded messages in the articles.
“Cess, you’ll do the London dailies,” Tensing said. “Worthing, you’ll do the village papers. Chasuble will be in on this, too.” Tensing shut his briefcase. “I’d like to speak to him before I leave.”
“I’ll go see if he’s back,” Cess said, and went out.
“Shut the door,” Tensing said to Ernest, and after he did, added, “It is a bloody business. That’s why I chose you. I know I can count on you.”
“What do the higher-ups say about this scheme?” Ernest asked.
“They don’t know yet. We have a meeting to discuss the deception plan with them week after next.”
“And if they vote not to approve it?” Ernest asked, looking at Tensing closely.
“Then I suppose we shall have to think of something else,” he said. “But I can’t imagine them doing anything so irresponsible. It would mean jeopardizing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives—so many that if I was told they’d voted the idea down, I’d be forced to conclude that the person who told me had got the story wrong.”
In other words, he intended to ignore the order and continue deceiving the Germans till he got caught and then plead ignorance. Like Lord Nelson had done at the battle of Copenhagen. Tensing was risking his career. And his future. He could be court-martialed, or worse, for disobeying orders, but he’d do it anyway. In order to save lives.
I didn’t get to observe Chaplain Howell Forgy at Pearl Harbor, Ernest thought, or the firemen at the World Trade Center, but I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve gotten to observe heroes. Not just Tensing, but the Commander and Jonathan. And Cess and Prism and Chasuble, fighting recalcitrant inflatables and angry bulls. And Turing and Dilly Knox, patiently deciphering code.
And Eileen, driving an ambulance through burning streets and coping with the Hodbins. And Polly, dealing daily with the threat of certain death.
If I ever get back to Oxford, I won’t need to go to the Pandemic and the Battle of the Bulge, he thought. I’ve collected more than enough material for my work on heroes right here.
“So, I take it you won’t be at this meeting where the policy’s to be discussed?” Ernest asked.
“Of course I’ll be there.” Tensing drew himself up indignantly. “Unless, of course, my back is acting up. Old war injury, you know.” He allowed himself a smile.
“Lord Nelson’s not the only one who has a blind eye he can turn.”
Cess opened the door and came in. “Chasuble just rang from Tenterden. He says the Austin’s acting up again.”
Right outside the Plough and Bull, no doubt, Ernest thought, where his barmaid Daphne works.
“You two will need to bring him up to speed, then,” Tensing said. He picked up his briefcase and started out. “Those photographs need to be in the dailies by tomorrow and the village papers by their next deadline.” He opened the door.
“Wait,” Cess said. “I’ve only just thought of something. These rockets, we wouldn’t be sending any of them down on our own heads, would we?”
Tensing shook his head. “You’re too far east. If this works as planned, the bulk of the bombs will fall on Bethnal Green, Croydon, and Dulwich.”
Time, which was once said to be on the side of the Allies, has turned out to be, after all, Hitler’s man.
—MOLLIE PANTER-DOWNES,
15 JUNE 1940
Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995
“HERE SHE IS, MR. KNIGHT,” TALBOT SAID. “EILEEN!” SHE shouted, waving across the room at the woman who’d just come into the Blitz exhibit.
She was just as Talbot had described her: gray hair, medium height, rather stout. “Lambert! Over here!” Talbot called, and then turned to Calvin, beaming. “I told you she’d be here soon, Mr. Knight.”
“Her name’s Eileen?” he asked, hoping to God he’d misheard her.
“Yes. Eileen! Goody!” Talbot called, waving again. Mrs. Lambert hadn’t looked up. She was fumbling in her handbag, apparently looking for a pen to write on the name tag she held in the other hand.
There were lots of Eileens in the war, he told himself over the sickening thud of his heart. That’s why Merope chose the name, because it had been so common.
